


say you'll remember me

by calipta



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, I almost forgot, I really am, I'M SORRY LIAM, I'm Sorry, M/M, and i didn't really stick to the prompt, and then i didn't, and there is no niall horan/ zayn malik, book a dentist appointment, harry is his baby, i also forgot about liam for some reason, i forgot about it and then it was too late i'm sorry, idk - Freeform, it got out of hand, louis is harry's sugar daddy, mild d/s undertones if that triggers anyone, sugar baby!harry, sugar daddy!louis, then re-enacting how they met, there is reminiscing about how they met, this is actually the fluffiest thing, well i sort of did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calipta/pseuds/calipta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is Harry's sugar daddy. They re-enact their first meeting. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say you'll remember me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [im_batgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_batgirl/gifts).



> So. I hope you like this, even though I (kind of) strayed far, far away from the original tags. There is no photography. Or vampires. But there is sex. A tiny, tiny sex scene. There is also 3k of word sugar. Enjoy.
> 
> (The title has nothing to do with the story; I just like Taylor Swift.)

“Haz,” says Louis. “Haz.” He pokes Harry repeatedly in the chest.

 

Harry wakes with a grunt, yawning and stretching his giant yeti arms. And hitting Louis in the face.

 

“Ouch,” Louis complains flatly, slapping Harry's arm, before musing, “D’you remember that Christmas party at Niall’s when you were drunk off your face, and I took you home because Niall thought we would make amazing babies together?”

 

Harry blinks unhurriedly, like he’s trying to clear his foggy brain. “…yeah. Good times, man. I thought you were, like, James Bond or something, what with your Burberry – “

 

“Armani,” Louis corrects.

 

“ – Armani suit, whatever, with your posh wingtips and your pretentious quiff. And it didn’t help that you took me to your mansion, especially while I was drunk, because you came off like this pretentious Armani James Bond with high thread count sheets. Personally, drunk me thought it was very Fifty Shades of Grey-esque, which is why I asked if you took me home to sex me and make me your sugar baby, and, like, I didn’t expect you to take me seriously. Like, I woke up in the morning pretty much drowning in hundred dollar bills, so.” Harry grins, dimples denting his cheeks, and Louis wants to sex him very much, even though he tells the longest, historically inaccurate stories with no point at all.

 

“Your stories are the worst and they’re not even historically correct,” he says softly, before leaning up to kiss Harry, morning breath be damned. “Also, you left out the part where you turned into a cat whenever I touched you.”

 

“I did not!”

 

“You did. There was actual purring.”

 

“There was no purring.” Harry pouts defensively.

 

“There was aggressive purring.”

 

“Louis Tomlinson, I do not purr.”

 

“You do.” Louis sits there with an impish smile on his face.

 

“Hey,” Harry complains half-heartedly. “I tell it how I see it.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Fine. Up, make me breakfast.” He shoves at Harry, roughly this time.

 

“What if I don’t? Will you spank me?” Harry waggles his eyebrows, his raspy morning voice doing things to Louis’ nether parts.

 

Louis growls and pounces on him, starting a wrestling match that ends in him straddling Harry, who’s grinning up at him with his frog face. It’s creepy, but mostly endearing. Louis loves him.

 

“I love you,” he says. “Now make me breakfast.” He wriggles on top of Harry, before stilling, raising an eyebrow. “Someone’s excited to make me breakfast.”

 

“I’ll be your breakfast,” Harry says, voice suddenly an octave deeper, eyes lidded. His head tips back, baring his neck to Louis. “Don’t you want me to?”

 

The entire situation is so ridiculous that Louis bursts out laughing on top of Harry, who pouts and shoves at him. “Shut up.”

 

Louis keeps laughing. Harry shoves at him some more before giving up and pressing his mouth to Louis’, effectively shutting him up.

 

+

 

“So I was thinking,” Louis begins, two orgasms later, his mouth full of pizza, because he’s Louis Tomlinson, the World’s Youngest CEO (according to Time Magazine), he owns more than half of a multi-billion dollar corporation, and if he wants pizza for breakfast, he will get pizza for breakfast.  Freshly made, slightly burnt pizza (which may or may not be because he blew Harry while said pizza was baking, because Baker Harry always gets him off), but pizza nevertheless.

 

“That’s never a good thing,” Harry drawls, mouth equally full with pizza, which should be disgusting, but. Louis has tasted his arse more than once. Also, Louis wants to marry his mouth. And the rest of his body. Preferably for the rest of his life. He should propose right now.

 

He doesn’t propose. Instead, he says, “Niall’s invited us to his Christmas party.”

 

Harry doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Niall invites us to his Christmas party every year. And you don’t ever go,” he adds.

 

“But we’re going this year.”

 

Harry pouts. “What about the entire day of sex we always plan for Christmas morning? What about your birthday? What about – “

 

Louis cocks an eyebrow. “What _about_ my birthday, hmm?”

 

“Uh, nothing,” Harry quickly backtracks. “What about work, though? You said something about a promotion at the iHeartRadio Jingle Ball or something.”

 

Louis knows a diversion tactic when he sees one. He runs a company. He is, like, the king of diversion tactics. Harry should know better than to try a diversion tactic on him, if only because he knows every single diversion tactic ever. (He should probably think of another word to describe diversion tactics.z0 “Jingle Ball is on New Year’s Eve, you tit. We’re talking about Christmas. Try to keep up. Also, you’ve marked your calendar as wining me and dining me before fucking me into oblivion or whatever, so I talked to Niall and it turns out that the fourth Tuesday of December is the 23rd so it all works out.” He takes a vicious bite out of his pizza.

 

Harry looks sufficiently defeated. “Fine.”

 

Louis does a triumphant wiggle dance in his seat, and the look on Harry’s face begins to resemble the one he makes when Rope, their kitten, decides to do something inane and adorable (which is 500% of the time).

 

“No, none of that, Harold,” Louis snaps, because he is very manly and strong and most certainly not adorable.

 

“But you’re so cuuuuuuuute,” Harry sings, snuggling into Louis’ side and contently polishing off Louis’ pizza. No one takes Louis’ pizza. This is wrong on so many levels.

 

Louis fumes and bats furiously at Harry. “Get your own pizza.”

 

Harry swallows, eyes sparkling, face almost splitting with his smile. “I love you.”

 

“Harold.” Harry does this every day. It embarrasses the fuck out of Louis, which is why Harry does it.

 

“I love you.”

 

“Harold.”

 

“You’re cute and adorable and I think Rope takes after you and I love you a lot.”

 

“Harry, stop.”

 

“I love you I love you I love you.”

 

“Harry.”

 

“I love you so much, and I love that you’re like the richest person under 25 in the entire world and yet you’re the dorkiest person I’ve ever met.”

 

“Haz.” Louis hides his face in his hands. “Haz, no.”

 

Harry gently pries Louis’ hands away before cupping his own giant paws around Louis’ face gingerly, green eyes boring into blue. “I’m serious. I love you.”

 

Louis stares for a few moments, mouth parted in surprise or lust – he isn’t sure – before surging up to press their mouths together. “You’re such a sappy little shit,” he mutters into the kiss. “I hate you.”

 

Harry kisses him harder.

 

+

 

At precisely 7am on December 23, the world starts playing Marimba.

 

Harry peeks open one eye, because the world should not be playing Marimba. Ever. Then he remembers that Louis Tomlinson, Entrepreneur Extraordinaire, has a bedroom incorporated with surround sound speakers, which he connects to a dock compatible with every single device in the world. (Said dock makes for the absolute best sex playlists. Harry’s boyfriend is the absolute best.)

 

Said Entrepreneur Extraordinaire is also swearing very loudly to Harry’s right. “Fuck buggering shite motherfucking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck that hurts.”

 

“That’s a lot of fucks,” Harry comments lazily (over Marimba rhythms. Okay, maybe he shouts a bit).

 

“Oh, shit.” Marimba finally cuts off, and then Louis is suddenly on top of him, peering down concernedly. “Sorry, did that wake you?”

 

Harry blinks and rubs at his eyes. “No, Louis. I’m asleep. What the hell is going on?”

 

Just as soon as he appears, Louis disappears from Harry’s view, clapping twice. The lights come on. “Marimba is great, Harold, don’t be a grump. And Pez called me in. Said if I didn’t, she’d cut off my penis and chop it into tiny pieces.” Harry can hear his wince. “I like my penis as it is, thanks.”

 

“Fuck Perrie. It’s too early,” Harry whines, shoving the covers away from his naked body and rolling over onto his back. “Come back to bed.”

 

Louis audibly swallows. Harry hoists himself onto his elbows, watching Louis go through his endless collection of pristine business suits.

 

“I agree that Perrie is a lovely specimen of a human being, but I doubt her boyfriend would appreciate the sentiment,” Louis says finally. Hoarsely. Harry has to fight a smile. He loves it when Louis gets all flustered.

 

Harry takes his flaccid cock in his hand, stroking it to full hardness. “I’m sure they’ll forgive you if you’re a couple of minutes late, right?” he wheedles, ignoring Louis’ last statement. “I mean, you’ve got a helipad on the roof. You’ll be there in like five.” He accentuates this by throwing his head back on a particularly good stroke.

 

Louis’ breath stutters and Harry can feel him stop whatever he’s doing to watch. “Fuck, Haz.” He doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s saying. (It really is too early.)

 

Harry forces his hand to slow down before opening his eyes and staring at Louis, knowing from experience that his pupils are likely blown and Louis finds it almost impossible to resist Harry like this.

 

For a moment, the only sound is their heavy breathing.

 

“Harry.” Louis’ voice breaks on the second syllable. “I have to go to work.” Even as he says this, his hand snakes down to grip his crotch, his eyes closing.

 

“Hnnn,” Harry whimpers, stripping his cock faster, hips thrusting up erratically. He can feel Louis’ stare boring into him from the other side of the room, and he chances a look at him.

 

“Yes,” mumbles Louis, slumped back on a dresser, hooded eyes locking with Harry’s, hips jerking as he pulls himself out of his boxers. His eyes close. “Yes.”

 

“C’mere,” says Harry, legs falling open.

 

Louis shakes his head. “Work.”

 

Harry tries to roll his eyes but they roll back instead.  “Fuck,” he whimpers. “Louis. Fuck.”

 

“Yes,” Louis groans, seemingly in agreement. Harry’s cock approves of this.

 

Harry gasps, his back arching as his other hand snakes down to fondle his balls. He cries out, face contorted, hips jerking wildly, back nearly snapping in two as he comes, white ribbons landing on his stomach, his chest, his face.

 

“Haz,” he hears Louis groan, before, “yeah, yeah, fuck yes,” as he shoots off onto his stomach. He slumps onto the floor, flipping Harry off.

 

“Fuck,” chirps Harry happily, sinking into the bed.

 

“Fuck you, showoff,” says Louis. “I have work.” He doesn’t move.

 

“Love you,” Harry says. “Have a good day at work.”

 

Louis looks up, looking completely sated. “You’re going to kill me someday. Also, did you know that you swear too much when you have sex?”

 

“I’ve been told,” Harry says. “Come cuddle.”

 

“No,” grumps Louis. “I have to shower.” He still doesn’t move.

 

“Aw, my baby,” coos Harry. “Come on. I’ll help you shower.” He gets out of bed and drags Louis up. “C’mon, babe.”

 

Rope slips through the open door at this point and looks up at the two of them with the stare of one completely betrayed.

 

Louis glares at Harry. “Harold, please tell me that door was shut.”

 

Harry shrugs.

 

Louis continues to glare before scooping up the violated kitten and scratching behind its ears. “It’s your fault the door was open.”

 

(Harry chooses not to point out that Louis is naked with dried semen on his stomach. He’s learned that it’s best not to contradict Louis, like, ever.)

 

If Louis is forty-five minutes behind schedule, well. He tells everyone it’s Harry’s fault, because it is.

 

+

Louis opens the door before Harry can even get in, a maniacal grin on his face.

 

“Hi?” chances Harry, because all these years later and he still can’t tell whether Louis’ maniac grin means he’s undertaking world domination or just messing with Harry’s head.

 

The grin grows even wider, if possible.

 

“You’re early,” he ventures. Because it’s true. Louis is usually never home before seven. It’s 5pm. Something is going on.

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m early. It’s Christmas party time. Niall told me to send you down early.”

 

Harry is confused. “Why didn’t he just text me?”

 

“Fine, he didn’t tell me to. But I’m telling you to, and you’re going to, aren’t you?” Louis stares at Harry meaningfully. Or at least Harry _thinks_ he stares meaningfully.

 

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to,” Harry replies, because his boy is actually insane and no one knows this because no one calls the World’s Youngest CEO insane. Probably because the World’s Youngest CEO could hire someone to kill them. Whatever. Harry is like the only person in the world who can say no to The Louis Tomlinson without being fired within the hour, bar the Queen, probably.

 

Louis levels a look at him. “Harry. You’re going to be a good boy and go to Niall’s party. When you’re there, you’re going to get very drunk. Can you do that for me?”

 

And oh. Harry finally gets it. They play at this sometimes, this game of – well, he doesn’t really know, but it gets him off – where he gets to be Louis’ good boy and he does everything Louis tells him to. “Okay,” he finally mumbles.

 

Louis smiles, face lighting up. “Good boy. Now go upstairs and change.”

 

Harry obeys without comment.

 

+

 

Harry is drunk beyond belief. He is waster. Wasted. Niall is the best. Niall makes really good drinks. Apple martins. Martinis. They’re green, like aliens.

 

He doesn’t even remember why he’s here. Like. He thinks that maybe Louis told him to? He doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Life is awesome.

 

“Mate!” Niall roars – slurs, maybe, just very loudly, obviously just as sloshed as Harry himself. “Look, I love ya boyfriend an’ all, but quit yer weird matin’ rituals, will ya? He told me to make ya stand over in that corner.” Niall claps Harry hard on the back before swaying off again, shouting a loud greeting to another of his thousands of friends who he somehow has lived with for a couple of years. Niall is very old. Harry thinks. Harry doesn’t know.

 

Harry stumbles over to said corner, or, well, he tries to. The world is spinning a lot and it feels like he’s walking on the ceiling, which, wait, that can’t be the ceiling. He can’t walk any further…this must be what they call a wall. Yes. Turn around, play it off. Make sure no one noticed. Casually hump the wall? Is that what he usually –

 

“Drunk Harry is interesting,” muses a familiar voice, and Harry thinks he can place it, but he tries to focus on the speaker first, and oh.

 

“Looooouuuuuis!” he slurs happily, jolting forward to wrap his arms around Louis. Louis is warm and smells like cinnamon. He loves Louis. He never wants to let Louis go. “Louis, I love you. Love. Love you, Lou. Louis! That rhymed! Lou and you!”

 

“Are you always this excited about life or do I not remember anything at all?” Louis questions, amusement coloring his features.

 

Harry frowns. “Louis. I’m serious,” he blinks, then breaks into giggles. “Louis. Louis. Loo-eeee. Your name is funny.”

 

“Haz.”

 

Harry curls around Louis more, probably suffocating him. He doesn’t care. Louis is awesome. “Take me home.”

 

“I remember this going about the same way,” Louis comments drily, trying to shift out of Harry’s hold. “Harry, let me go.”

 

He doesn’t move. “Sex me.”

 

“What the fuck, Harry. You’re so drunk. C’mon, let go.”

 

He shakes his head stubbornly, clutching Louis’ shirt. “Nooooooooooo. Noooooooo. Noooooooo.”

 

Louis sighs, giving up. “Fine. Hey, Niall!” he yells. “More beers!”

 

“Get your own, ya bastard!”

 

+

 

Louis can’t stop laughing.

 

Harry wants to punch him. It’s, like, eight in the morning. He’s hungover. Every single sound that Louis makes is like a giant stomping on Harry’s brain. “Stop,” he pleads, flapping a hand weakly at Louis. “Hurts.”

 

“You were so drunk, though,” Louis says. “I can’t believe how well that went.”

 

“I don’t remember _anything_ , stop talking,” grumbles Harry.

 

“You asked me to sex you,” Louis reminds him.

 

Harry flips him off.

 

“Idiot,” says Louis fondly, before chucking a pillow at Harry’s head.

 

Harry gives up. “My head is on _fire_.”

 

“Wow. Specific.”

 

“How are you not hungover?” he complains. “This is the worst.”

 

“It’s not my fault you have the alcohol tolerance of a squirrel.”

 

“Are you serious.”

 

“I am. You do.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“Do too.”

 

Harry groans. “Can we have this conversation later? Like, when I’m coherent?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re five.”

 

Louis sticks his tongue out. (Not that Harry can tell. He can just feel him sticking out his tongue.)

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Love you.”

 

“Shut up,” groans Harry, before a quiet, “please?”

 

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

 

“You prick.”

 

“You love me.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“You do.”

 

“Not.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“Lou –“ before Louis kisses him softly, and – wait, what is that wet thing on his leg? He pushes Louis off only to find a tiny black kitten staring innocently up at him, tongue pressed to his calf.

 

“I swear Rope knows exactly what she’s doing,” he murmurs to Louis as they both observe their little cat, who crawls up the bed carefully before lying down between them, curling into a little ball.

 

Louis looks at him helplessly. “I think she’s been mentally scarred by, like, our sex noises. This is her protest or something.”

 

“We have such a smart cat,” Harry agrees, stroking her silky black fur.

 

Louis eyes Rope dubiously. “More like devious. She’s probably plotting world domination as we speak.”

 

“True.”

 

“Don’t worry, Rope, we still love you,” Louis assures the kitten. “Despite your evil plans.”

 

Rope opens one eye to bat at Harry’s finger. “Meow.”

 

“I think this is part of her evil plan,” Harry comments offhandedly.

 

“Totally.”

 

“Look at us,” Harry sighs. “We’re sixty. We have a fully paid home, a retirement fund, and a cat. We’re old.”

 

“But we have each other.”

 

Harry covers his face with his hands. “We _are_ sixty. What is happening.”

 

“Hey,” says Louis quietly.

 

Harry looks at him. “Yeah?”

 

“I love you.” (Louis doesn’t say this very often. But when he does, he means it.)

 

“You fucker.” But it’s fond. And somehow his pounding migraine has disappeared. It’ll come back later, though.

 

(Turns out you _can_ meet your soulmate while drunk.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, bookmarks, kudos. They mean the world. (They don't take very long, either.)


End file.
